


On the care of watchmen and other smol corrosive creatures, by Lady Sybil Ramkin Vimes

by Demmora



Series: On the care of watchmen [2]
Category: Discworld, Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Missing Moments, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demmora/pseuds/Demmora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon request for Sybil looking after sickly Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the care of watchmen and other smol corrosive creatures, by Lady Sybil Ramkin Vimes

There was a common expression in Ankh-Morpork, often uttered by little old ladies in response to great struggle, that what was for you, wouldn’t go by you.

Sam Vimes had certainly found this to be true. Especially if what was for you was a kick to the teeth when you were already down. Which was what made his new life all the more…difficult. He kept waiting for it to end, for Sybil to wake up and find out he wasn’t the man she thought he was, for all the warmth and color that had slowly crept into his world to drain away quicker than water colors on a canvas left out in a tsunami. And the fact that it hadn’t happened yet left him cold and shivering, despite the roaring fire in the drawing room.

Of course that might also be the ‘flu’ currently ravaging through his body, as Captain Carrot had so _diplomatically_ put it. Ha, yes. _Flu._

Vimes had always known there was a reason he avoided being sober, not least because he’d never had a reason to be. It was because the process of getting there was a special form of hell that only a medicinal swig could cure. Of course the problem with that was, it also cured his sobriety. It was a double edged corkscrew that twisted sharply, with every turn leading to an open bottle. So Vimes had found the best thing to do was leave it alone entirely. Even if it did currently feel like his head was being cleaved open from the inside. At least the walls had stopped melting now.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there in that overstuffed chair, the fire from the hearth uncomfortably hot but unwilling to move, but when he felt the cool cloth on his forehead he jerked upright. His eyes felt as though they’d been gouged out and replaced with hot coals, but he pried them open anyway and tried to focus on what was in front of him.

“Oh, Sam.” Sybil murmured, pulling the cloth from his forehead and wetting it again in the bowl she’d balanced precariously on the edge of his chair, gaze unbearably tender as she roamed over his weary features.

 _I bet you’re sorry now,_ Vimes wanted to say, _I bet you’re sorry you ever laid eyes on me, sorry you let me get my boots in the door, sorry you let me in your bed, sorry you even tried…_

But all that came out was “Sorry.”

“Shh,” Sybil sighed, reaching out to place the cloth over his forehead again, impossibly gentle in a world turned raw by the speed at which it had been turned around. “You should be in bed, Sam.”

Vimes didn’t reply, instead he reached out to the face hovering over him, letting trembling and calloused fingers ghost over the soft skin of her cheek, clumsily reaching out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t wearing her wig, he realized, and afforded himself the luxury of being able to look at her without it, short hair curling neatly down to the nape of her neck.

Despite feeling like his insides were about to become his outsides, Vimes smiled.

“Have I told you lately that you’re beautiful.”

And it was amazing how such simple words could reduce a woman as practical and rooted to the disc as Sybil to flustered, the color rising prettily from the depths of her bodice, creeping up her neck until her cheeks glowed pink and she tumbled over words of protest and admonishment, telling him not to be so silly and that he really ought to get up and go to bed. But she didn’t push his hand away either, or move away from his side, so Sam Vimes did the only thing he could think of and pulled her up until she was sitting across his lap and wrapped his arms as far around her as he could, and buried himself against her soft warmth and inhaled the scent of her, a strange mix of fire and sweet powders that never ought to have went together, but somehow did.

“Sam,” Sybil laughed softly, sending ripples through her wonderfully expansive frame pushing him down and pinning him to the disc, a reassuring weight in his arms. “Sam,” she tried again, gently pushing wet hair back from his forehead, “don’t be ridiculous, this can’t be comfortable, I’m crushing you.”

“Then I’ll die happy.” Vimes muttered in reply, nuzzling closer to her and letting his head rest against her shoulder, smiling hazily when she laughed again, her large arms coming to rest around his neck and drawing him into her bosom.

“Sam?”

“Yes, dear?” Vimes replied, eyes already sliding closed, sleep finally coaxed out, raw nerves calmed by her presence.

"I love you, Sam.”

“Thank the gods,” He mumbled dryly, “someone has to.”

She chuckled again, and there was a pause, broken only by the crackling of the dwindling fire.

“Sybil?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“I love you too, Sybil.”

“Yes, Sam. I know.”


End file.
